


A Drunken Proposal

by min_i_x



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma (2020), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Drunken Ruminations, F/M, Fluff, New Year's Eve, One Shot, Slightly more modern AU, Wholesome, classic knightley-woodhouse playful banter, drunk proposal, emma is overwhelmed and a little confused but shes so conflicted omg, emma isnt drunk on liquor, floofy interactions, george knightley is drunk, sad George, shes drunk on emOTIONS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29107887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/min_i_x/pseuds/min_i_x
Summary: [Inspired by @kiingbiing (insta)'s probagel comic]It is New Year's Eve and the Woodhouses are enjoying a quiet late night in. Dear Mr Woodhouse has of course retired, and our two favourite characters are left alone by firelight waiting for the fireworks to mark the start of the new year. On this rare occasion, the calm and composed Mr Knightley has had a tad bit too much to drink, and his detached facade begins to crumble...
Relationships: George Knightley & Emma Woodhouse, George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 29
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! As mentioned in the summary, this is inspired by a drunken proposal drawn in @kiingbiing 's comics on Instagram. I've been wanting to write some Emma fanfic for a while, but just haven't had the inspiration till it struck today. 
> 
> I don't usually write Regency-era fics, mostly because I doubt I know enough about the period to do justice to the writing and the characters and setting, so this is a more modern AU of Emma. I also liked the idea that whilst George Knightley drinks, he's a little bit of a lightweight. 
> 
> Given the nature of the Woodhouses, they would probably be with a party for the setting (New Year's Eve) but entreat me, for this one fic.

The flames crackled in the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm amber light. A spread of various desserts and sweets was laid out on the table, gleaming and glistening in the fire’s radiance. Moonlight filtered through the windows, the faint twinkling of the stars filling the vast, cloudless indigo sky. 

Yet George Knightley did not seem to have a thought for the flawless arrangement of the sweets, the vastness of the sky nor the life of the flames. Swirling his brandy mindlessly in his glass, his eyes were fixed upon Emma: the way her golden hair framed her face like a halo; the way the cool light of the moon and the warm hues of the fire danced in her eyes; the blossoming pink blush across her cheeks. 

He wondered how much he’d had to drink thus far. Usually, he only had a few glasses - enough to indulge his guests, or his hosts and not to seem rude, and enough to enjoy, but never in excess so as to behave abominably, or stump his memory so. Frowning slightly, he reached for his watch to check the time. Perhaps that would be a good indicator as to whether or not he should stop drinking. 

George squinted at the watch face. He tilted his head slightly, as if to get a better viewing angle of the watch. He could make out a circle of lines, and more lines… called… feet? fingers? hands? _Maybe I’m squinting too hard…_ he thought. He widened his eyes, and the watch-face came into greater focus, yet he still couldn’t seem to discern the numbers. _There are numbers on this thing, right? Or do I own one without numbers? How terribly inconvenient…_

An airy giggle broke his clouded state of befuddlement. George looked up, slightly startled. Emma’s doe-like eyes stared into his, her rosy lips turned up into a smile. 

“Mr. Knightley, are you having a little trouble discerning the time?” she teased, leaning forward ever so slightly. 

George blinked, and huffed in faux annoyance. “No, not at all.” 

“Are you quite sure?” she quipped.

“Indeed. I am merely scrutin...scrutinising the…” George couldn’t seem to put his finger on the word, escaping him. “The design! Yes, the make and design of the watch,” he affirmed.

Emma arched an eyebrow, smirking playfully. “Why, Mr. Knightley, I thought you above such trifling details… then again, I also expected you to be quite well acquainted to its design, seeing as the watch has been in your ownership for so many years.” 

George opened his mouth to retort, but the gears in his head seemed to have slowed. He was transfixed by her playful look and demeanour. Unable to assemble a witty reply, he contented to huffing and crossing his arms. Emma’s gaiety only increased. Laughing, she lifted herself from the sofa and crossed the distance to his chair.

“Don’t pout, Mr. Knightley! Goodness, you’re worse than little Henry, making a face like that.” Emma remarked, desperately trying to sound admonishing but failing miserably. 

“I am not pouting. A gentleman never pouts.” 

Emma’s smile only widened. She reached out, delicate fingers wrapping around the fist in which he held his watch and uncurling it slowly. She held up the watch to his eye-level, standing beside him as she leaned to tell him how to read the time.

“You see, my dear Mr. Knightley, it is so very simple,” she said coyly, “this here is the minute hand, and this here is the hour hand - and you, being so very minimalistic, have chosen a watch-face without numbers. But as you will observe, the time now is very nearly midnight - eleven thirty.” 

Emma’s words seemed to fly over his head. George was much too pre-occupied by the tantalising warmth of her soft fingers brushing the back of his hand, the ambrosial scent of her perfume, and the nearness of her face to his. 

_She’s beet. Beetiful? No, no… that’s not it…. Beautiful._

George soon realised she’d stopped talking, because her eyes were boring into his and reading into his soul’s deepest secrets and _oh,_ how he could drown in those eyes. She was watching him curiously - George couldn’t quite put a finger on the way she was looking at him. _What should I do?_ He pondered. He tried to think of the proper thing to do, but all the complexities of propriety made his head spin. It was much, much easier to gaze lovingly into her eyes and imagine the life they could have together, one he was too scared to ask for.

“Are we just going to sit and stare at each other for the rest of the night?” Emma asked playfully.

“You’re not sitting. You should sit first.”

Emma chuckled. He liked the sound of her laughing. “Goodness, Mr. Knightley. How much _did_ you drink?” she replied, moving away from him towards the table. _No! Don’t go, come back…_

“I drank what you offered. And what your father offered.” he replied, trying to see what Emma was doing but was blocked by her form.

“Mmm… and at the dinner party, too. I expected you to decline, Mr. Knightley.” 

Emma piled a few sweets and foods onto one of the small plates. She added a doughnut, just for good measure. She really had been quite taken with these doughnuts, and enjoyed them very much - of course, to her father’s displeasure. Its first sin was not its excessive sugary coating and icing, but that it was fried in oil! But Emma, as persuasive as ever, had managed to secure herself, and the party that had departed earlier, a delicious box of doughnuts. 

She picked up the plate, and offered it to Mr. Knightley. “Here. Eat. You didn’t eat very much earlier, and all that liquor on an almost empty stomach can’t have been good for you.” 

“I’m fine, Emma.” George said, but nonetheless took the plate into his hands. _Hum. Some of this stuff actually looks quite tasty now._ George could feel a low rumble in his stomach. _Yes, maybe I will eat some of these sweets. If she wants me to eat, I’ll eat._

George eyed the doughnut she’d placed on the plate suspiciously.

“It’s a plain donut with a little sprinkle of sugar on the top, just the way you like it,” Emma said softly. “I saved it for you.” 

A feeling of warmth spread in his chest, one that had nothing to do with the burning fire to his right. It filled his lungs the way the fresh Hartfield air welcomed him when he returned from dusty London, lifting his spirits and helping them soar. Being held _first_ in her regard, and her concern - though only after her father, sent such a fuzzy feeling coursing through his veins that he broke out into a grin. He could hardly contain the bubbling feeling within, a feeling he began to understand was familiar but so oft suppressed.

Letting the gaiety take its course, with all its infectious happiness, and at last come to surface felt just as good as a swig of good, strong whiskey. _Why don’t I do this more often? I could forgo drinking altogether!_ _And what a fortune I’d save!_ His thoughts were beginning to be rather ludicrous, but they made him chuckle altogether. 

Emma stared at the broad figure of George Knightley, puzzling over the donut and now grinning and chuckling like a fool. It was rare that she ever saw him so relaxed, with the burdens of societal expectations and judgment off his shoulders and so detached from his business and tenants. The carefree happiness on his face made him look all the more charming with his tousled curls. Truly, had anyone looked upon Mr. Knightley in such a moment, they would never guess he was a day over twenty-four. Emma smiled to herself. She liked seeing him this way. 

“Why thank you, Emma dearest. I am honoured.” George replied.

“Are you going to eat it, or are you just going to stare at it?” she asked.

“The latter first, then the former. It is truly an extraordinary delicacy, is it not?” George asked, with a genuine note of admiration in her voice.

Emma struggled to stifle her laugh. “Truly, truly! Most definitely. I can’t imagine anything greater,” she said, playing along. “Papa says he disagrees, but I noticed he quite enjoyed himself tonight.” Emma sighed. “The new year truly is a blessed time for change. Perhaps Papa will consent to a trip to the beach next year.” 

George was staring intently at the ring of dough, and how it glistened and almost glittered in the firelight. 

“Time for change…” he muttered under his breath. 

“Mr. Elton certainly seems to think so too. I do not pretend to understand the reasons for his marrying Mrs. Elton, and vice versa, but it must be somewhat novel to beckon in the new year as a couple.” Emma continued.

George blinked, drawing his eyes away from the food and to observe Emma’s figure leaning against the window as she stared out at the sky. He could see the condensation of her breath on the glass.

 _As a couple…_ A million thoughts rushed into his mind at once, and a million more feelings suppressed within to accompany them. Mr. Elton had proposed to Emma… and what if she had agreed? What if she had accepted? Would they not be here, by the fire of Hartfield, enjoying this sweet and intimate moment together? _I’d be in Donwell. Alone. Missing the sound of her voice, her bickering, her smile…_ The fires of Donwell Abbey were not so different to those at Hartfield, but the warmth he had been seeking over the last couple of years could only be found here. 

The lonely image of his being alone at Donwell, like a vortex spinning in the centre of the doughnut, seemed to draw him in with a vice-grip. 

_Hollow, dark and dusty hallways in Donwell Abbey. The miserable, confirmed bachelor known by many as Mr. Knightley paces the ghost silent corridors. For there is little cheer or merriment at Donwell Abbey. The young ladies, wives, and widows whisper in the corners of dinner parties that ‘it was such a shame’ he never married, and that though he appears merry in public, really only drowns himself in work to distract from his loneliness._

_The voices turn vicious._ **_No, I’m not lonely. I have several close friends and acquaintances with whom I meet on a regular basis._ ** _The regularity of your meetings begin to decline, the intervals increasing and elongating._ **_I walk to Hartfield every day._ ** _But for how long, Knightley?_

A phantasmic image is conjured within his mind.

 _You walk to Hartfield. You approach the building. The lights are lit and you can hear the shrieks of laughter from inside. A pretty blonde is espied through the window, lifting a child in her arms and throwing him in the air._ George almost smiles. _Alas, a second figure appears, embraces her and kisses her. The mysterious, handsome and charming Frank Churchill. You are no longer welcome. You may no longer come and go as you please - and why would you be allowed? You are a friend, perhaps a business associate, and nothing more._

“No!” George exclaimed, jumping out of the chair. The tightness and pain in his chest seemed to subside, the harrowing daydream dissipated, and he could see the chairs and sofa come back into focus.

Emma rushed from the windowsill to his side, gently gripping his forearm in concern.

“Mr. Knightely, are you alright? You look as if you have seen a ghost!” she cried, voice filled with worry.

He looked into her eyes with a terribly conflicted longing. He had seen a ghost. The ghost he would become, no longer anyone’s _dear Mr Knightley_. He could not lose her, and the fear seemed to seize him whole.

Hands trembling slightly, he grasped for Emma’s hands and clasped them tightly. Eyes wide, he looked right at her.

“Emma, would you ever want to quit my company? Be rid of me?” he asked.

Emma was shocked, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ at hearing his question.

 _Is she shocked because I’ve discovered her truth? Does she really not see me as anything more than a friend? A help to her father?_ The thought unsettled him, and he felt as if he was crumbling from within. 

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Mr. Knightley! Of course not. How could I ever be rid of you?” Emma insisted, shaking their clasped hands fervently. 

George blinked, eyes lighting up with hope. “Really?”

Emma was taken aback by his sudden show of vulnerability. Did he really consider her so dear a friend? She blushed at the thought. Was this just the liquor talking, or did he really hide all this emotions beneath his chiseled complexion?

“I could never be rid of you. You are far too dear to me, and far too dear for Papa. For as long as you should desire to be at Hartfield, its doors will be open. You know that.” Emma attested.

Her words were a soothing balm. “As long as I should desire? So...forever?” George asked, feeling himself grin again. 

Emma’s eyebrow was arched again. “Yes, forever. Till the end of time, if you so wish it.” 

George pulled her into a warm embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. Emma was startled by the gesture, but wrapped her arms around him all the same, sighing contentedly and bemusedly. 

“Good.” George said, whispering into her ear.

Emma chuckled to herself, resting her head against his shoulder. The room was a little drafty, and the dying fire was not nearly so toasty as his embrace. “No more brandy for you, sir. As much as it amuses me to see you so terribly happy, I cannot bear to witness such sorrowful looks upon your face.” 

An ecstatic glee filled his person at hearing the tenderness in her voice. He squeezed her tightly, lifting her off the floor and spinning her round in a circle. Emma squealed, tightening her grip on his coat but giggling all the same. He put her down on the ground, enjoying the red flush that graced her cheeks. He continued to look at her, grinning with self-satisfaction.

“If you can’t bear to see me so sorrowful, I can think of a remedy.” he said. The words were out of his mouth before he could think about what he was going to say next. He felt a surge of confidence, and was most certainly going to ride this wave out to sea. 

“And what may this remedy be? I certainly do not consent to being spun around anymore.” Emma replied haughtily, though she secretly wished he would do it again.

George hurried over to the table and picked something up, though Emma could not see what it was. He hid it behind his back as he made his way over to her, smiling like a child.

“Are you ready?” he asked, excitement coursing through his body. George was practically bouncing on his heels.

“Yes?” Emma replied, half bewildered and enthralled. The alcohol had revealed a side of George Knightely filled with silly, entertaining antics. 

In a sweeping motion, he fell to the ground on one knee, and brazenly held out the doughnut to Emma. 

“Miss Woodhouse, will you marry me?” 

Emma blinked. She rubbed her eyes twice and began to felt she should get her hearing checked.

“Wil - I wha?” she stammered. Goodness, she wasn’t even the drunk one and here she was fumbling over her words!

“Will you marry me?” he asked again, with even more charm and charisma. Thinking about how deep his voice was made even more blood rush to Emma’s face. 

“Well I - Yes! No, I - I mean, Mr. Knightley, I am - am most flattered, but you’re drunk and this is a doughnut, not a ring!” Emma protested, though the sight of him kneeling before her sent her very mind into a tizzy. She was flustered by how easily she had said yes, and the realization that perhaps she did want him to be _her_ Mr. Knightley. 

“It’s the same thing!” he replied, pouting. “It’s shiny, and it’s a circle, and...and it’s pretty and elegant, just like you!” 

Emma bit her lip. _Good heavens,_ she thought, _he really is so sweet_. Emma was practically bursting with happiness and giddiness - after all, though many attempted to flatter her, nothing would ever compare to the admiration of her ever dear Mr Knightley. 

Emma’s silent pondering had begun to worry George. Was she going to say no? 

_But this is the nicest doughnut in the box…_

“Perhaps you should try this again when you’re not so tipsy, Mr. Knightley,” she said, trying to sound jovial, but secretly wishing he would take her advice.

George was silent. 

Emma looked back at his face, now crestfallen and devoid of the gleeful joy from seconds earlier. _God,_ how she hated seeing him so upset. Evidently, he seemed to be rather serious about this question. But what if it was just the liquor? How aware was he of his drunkenness? Emma began to feel torn. Perhaps she needn’t get her hopes up about his affection for her. After all, he was more than tipsy.

But one glance at his wistful eyes and she knew she could not disappoint. After all, what was the harm in saying yes? She doubted he’d recollect this night the next morning.

Emma bit her lip, and decided to indulge her inner voice for tonight.

“Yes, I will! Of course!” she exclaimed, and watched the light return to his face. 

She chuckled nervously, and placed her hand through the doughnut so it dangled like a bracelet around her wrist. _How silly,_ Emma thought. She broke into a fit of laughter, with George joining her as he heaved himself off the ground. 

He clasped her hands tightly, and stared intently into her eyes. "I would brave high and hell water for you, Emma." 

Emma struggled to respond, flushing at his intended meaning but wanting to giggle at his jumbled words. 

All of a sudden, colours exploded in the sky, lighting up the heavens and marking the start of the new year. Emma was saved the trouble of putting together a coherent string of words, for her delicate heart was much to overloaded with affection. The pair turned to face the window, watching the sparkling lights burst and fade. 

“Happy New Year, Mr. Knightley.” Emma said softly as she gazed out the window.

“Happy New Year, Mrs. Knightley.” 

Emma opened her mouth to correct him, but shut it promptly. She would enjoy this stolen moment while it lasted. She sighed contentedly, not noticing that her dear Mr. Knightley didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the lightshow at all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Emma woke up the next day feeling surprisingly well-rested. Soft streams of light filtered through her window, illuminating the room. She checked the time, and was surprised to see it was almost ten in the morning. She hurriedly jumped out of bed and began readying herself for the day, wondering if her father had dined alone for breakfast that morning. _How upset Papa would have been to be eating the first breakfast of the new year alone… I wonder that he did not send the maid to wake me._ ****

Before leaving her room, Emma checked her reflection in the mirror of the vanity for any abnormalities that her father may take for illness. She was the picture of health, save for a thin line under her eyes alluding to her late night. She huffed in satisfaction, and was about to make her way out the door when a golden gleam caught her eye.

Emma blinked. She made her way back to the vanity, eyeing the golden sheen from the corner of the table buried beneath her necklace. Her delicate fingers reached out to grasp the object. Emma gasped softly. ****

_What on earth is Mr. Knightley’s watch doing here?_ ****

All of a sudden, the events of the previous evening came rushing back to her. ****

*.*.* ****

“My dear Emma, what time is it?” Mr. Knightley asked, wiping the crumbs from his mouth as he lowered the plate onto the table. ****

“Why, it is near one o’clock.” Emma replied. ****

“Good heavens! It’s late! I must take leave and return to Donwell.” ****

“What? Do you intend to walk unattended? You are in no fit state to be removed from Hartfield. You will stay in one of the guest rooms.” ****

“But -” ****

“Goodness, Mr. Knightley, if liquor absolves your sense of time, perhaps you should have more. You were not so concerned about the lateness of the hour thirty minutes prior,” Emma retorted, huffing slightly. ****

“Rats!” George exclaims, quickly lifting the bottle of brandy before more liquor spilt onto the table. He placed the bottle temporarily on the mantelpiece, lifting the half-full glass off the table. ****

Emma’s eyes widened in shock. She hurried over to him, attempting to wrestle the glass from his hands before he had a chance to chug it down. ****

“I didn’t mean it literally!” she cried indignantly. ****

“Well, my dear, I did say I would do all that you asked of me,” George replied, crinkling his nose and waving the glass in front of her, an almost roguish grin gracing his features. ****

“Give me the glass this instant, or I will force myself on you.” Emma huffed. ****

His eyebrows raised. “How scandalous of you, Miss Woodhouse.” ****

“Not like that!” ****

“It sure sounded like it. It was a very aggressive statement. I think I should be concerned for my - OOF!” The sofa cushion made contact with George’s face and fell to the ground. “Careful, Emma. You almost made me spill the brandy!” ****

Emma’s jaw dropped. “You. Are. Unbelievable.” ****

George winked. “Why thank you.” ****

Emma let out a frustrated growl and - in the most graceful manner possible - lunged for the glass in his hand. George stumbled backwards, raising the glass in his hand over his head. ****

“Good lord, Emma, you really did throw yourself at me! But tch, now you won’t be able to reach the glass, hmm?” ****

Emma’s brow furrowed, and grasping the corner of the mantelpiece for support, glared up at him. She narrowed her eyes, watching him wiggle the glass at her above his head. Unbelievable. ****

Emma lifted herself up and quite ran at George Knightley, jumping as high as she could. George laughed heartily. He could feel the tip of her fingers graze his extended arm at his elbow, but never any higher. After numerous unsuccessful attempts, Emma deigned to try any further. She huffed, crossing her arms. ****

“You have to put your arm down eventually.” she muttered bitterly. ****

“Do I?” George teased. Oh, how he enjoyed teasing her so. ****

Emma bit her lip, resolving to glare him into submission. She tried to muster as much haughty disapproval as possible into her gaze. ****

George struggled to contain his laughter. He thought she looked adorable, trying to feign anger. ****

“You know what? I’ll make a trade.” George said, lowering his arm slightly. ****

“In return for the glass? And a promise not to drink any more?” Emma replied, unable to conceal her excitement. She chided herself gently - she needed to put on the appropriate poker face for negotiations. What could he possibly want? ****

“Yes. In return for both… I want… your hand.” ****

Emma looked at him quizzically. “Again? Don’t be silly! Don’t you remember what you asked me just an hour or so earlier?” ****

He held the glass out to her. ****

“No, I want to hold your hand. Your actual hand?” ****

Emma’s mouth yet again formed a small ‘o’. Goodness, she really was getting shocked a lot this night. The tenderness of his gaze stumped her mind temporarily. ****

“I - well - you nonsensical man!” she huffed, exasperated. She swiftly removed the glass from his hand and placed it on the table. His palm was still outstretched. Emma looked up at him curiously. Sighing, she took his hand and shook it. ****

“There.” ****

George was almost smiling from ear to ear. He leaned forward to gently kiss the back of her hand and Emma blushed. ****

“Aren’t you going to let go?” Emma asked. ****

“No.” George replied, chuckling contentedly to himself. ****

Emma’s sarcasm faltered. She let herself admire the depth of his gaze for a few moments, before deciding that they both needed to rest, and it would be easier to convince Mr. Knightley to retire whilst this good mood lasted. ****

“You need to rest. I’ll show you to the guest room now.” Emma said decidedly, and turned away. She could feel his firm grip around her hand pull her back. ****

“Rest now?” he asked, looking disheartened. ****

“Yes. I won’t hear a word about it. I’ll drag you to the room if I have to.” ****

George sighed, knowing when he was defeated. “Lead the way.” ****

It had been quite a bit of trouble for Emma to drag him to the guest room. George Knightley found every tiny reason to stop and lengthen the journey, but alas, he could not stop her altogether. What he would have given to have spent more hours like this with her, but his inebriated mind was in no state to battle her sheer will and determination. He supposed she was right. After all, he did need rest - though he didn’t quite feel like he did. ****

Once they arrived at their destination, he had watched her flutter around the room, fussing over the sheets, or the pillows, or the insufficient blankets and whatnot. He didn’t really quite see the need, the room was fine just as it was. The room was unused most of the time, yes, but it was an unused room in Hartfield, and George reckoned one could probably eat off the floor and feel perfectly well the next day. _Hell, they might even feel better._ Nevertheless, he enjoyed the fact she cared so much for his comfort. ****

“The maids are all asleep, but I’ve done what I can to make it more comfy.” Emma said, clasping her hands together. Part of her was glad to have both hands free once more, but part of her could feel the missing warmth his hand provided. ****

“The room is perfect, Emma. Thank you.” he replied. ****

Emma looked at her dear Mr. Knightley. She couldn’t quite decide if it would be better or worse that he did not remember tonight, or if he would remember it all. Surely, not even Mr. Knightley could be so resilient to the effects of that much liquor. Hoping he was not, Emma pressed a light kiss to his cheek, leaving him looking rather stunned in the doorway. ****

“Rest well.” he mumbled, shutting the door softly. ****

Emma hurried back to the parlour to tidy the glasses and the sweets. She cleaned up as best as she could, carrying the leftover treats to the kitchen to be stored. She returned with a cloth to wipe any crumbs left on the table, hoping her cleaning would be sufficient so as to ensure ants would not appear the next day. The Woodhouses rarely ever had ants, and she desired to keep it that way. ****

Satisfied with the cleanliness of the table, Emma made her way to the fireplace and removed the bottle of brandy from the mantelpiece. She returned it to the liquor cabinet, turning to survey the room once more. Emma noticed the golden gleam of Mr. Knightley’s watch, resting atop the armrests of his chair. ****

Chuckling to herself, she picked it up with the intention of returning it to its owner. However, as she passed Mr. Knightley’s room, she could hear his soft snores as she pressed her ears to the door. Smiling to herself, she tightened her grip on the watch and walked to her bedchamber. ****

*.*.* ****

The recollection of what had transpired made Emma’s face burn with embarrassment. _Would he remember? Would he want to pretend it never happened if he did? Oh, god! What if he felt embarrassed too, and deigned to never speak to me again?_

All of a sudden, she found herself feeling more nervous about breakfast, and whether she would see that same tenderness in his eyes when she greeted him. _If he is awake, that is…_

Emma huffed, and upon concluding that nerves would do her no good, made haste and left her room, taking the watch with her. ****

Emma entered the dining room to see not only her beloved father, but Mr Knightley seated around the table, breakfast in the midst of being first. Both were quite at ease, and Mr. Woodhouse did not seem at all concerned or suspicious as to Mr. Knightley’s being here. He often joined them for breakfast, but Emma was now wondering what her father would say or think if he discovered that Mr. Knightley had not returned to Donwell Abbey the night before. Surely he would have no issue with it - perhaps he even knew already. Hopefully. ****

“Good Morning, Emma. Are you well-rested?” Mr. Woodhouse asked absent-mindedly, busy scrutinising his boiled egg and its degree of softness. ****

Emma was slightly surprised. “You are eating late, Papa. I hope you did not wait for me for too long.” ****

“Not at all, my dear. I myself only woke up less than an hour ago - I did take rest much later than usual last night, after all. Sit, sit,” Mr. Woodhouse urged. ****

Emma seated herself across from Mr. Knightley, who appeared well-rested enough for her father, but Emma could see faint bags under his eyes. Pursing her lips, she secretly wondered what kind of hangover he must’ve had when he woke up this morning. She felt the nerves from earlier return. ****

“Good Morning, Mr. Knightley. I hope you are feeling well. Did you rise late as well?” Emma asked casually, trying to hint at yesternight’s events and consumption of liquor. ****

“Good Morning to you as well, Emma,” George replied, pausing slightly. “I am in considerably wonderful health. I admit I woke later than usual, but given my habit of rising early, I would not consider it ‘late’.” ****

Emma raised an eyebrow. _Considerably wonderful health?_ Did that mean he didn’t remember? Was his health only considerable because of the hangover, or the confusion that came along with it? ****

“Oh, before I forget - here is your watch, Mr. Knightley.” Emma said, holding it out in the most inconspicuous manner possible. She watched his face carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. If he remembered taking it off, he surely would recall the rest of the evening. ****

“Oh, how careless of me - I don’t even recall when it fell off. Thank you.” he replied nonchalantly. ****

Part of Emma’s heart sunk. _No, I am relieved. It would have been much too awkward if he had remembered_. She buried the disappointment within and forced a smile onto her face. ****

George found Emma’s slightly unnerved attitude at breakfast peculiar. Emma, who was usually carefree and chatty seemed to be slightly more reserved. She had not entered the room with her usual bustle, seemed less energized and more preoccupied with her thoughts. His Emma, usually unapologetically loud and freely speaking her mind, was altered. Of course, to any mere acquaintance the difference would have been indiscernible. But George Knightley was no mere acquaintance.

She fidgeted more than usual, acted extremely suspiciously when handing him his watch - George couldn’t quite understand why she had almost whispered it to him, as if it were some great secret. Yet she smiled, laughed and talked as usual - perhaps last nights’ liquor had really taken a toll on him. _Damnation! What if I did something improper or crude last night? Is that why she’s acting strangely?_

The thought caused George to worry. He was frustrated enough this morning that he remembered nothing after the drinks he shared before Mr. Weston left the party, and had largely shaken it off by virtue of a brisk walk in the fresh morning air. George could feel that same vexation seeping in slowly, and drummed his fingers softly on the table. He was consumed by his thoughts, racking his brain for the memories he so desperately wanted, the answers he needed. Mr. Woodhouse seemed peaceable enough with him, so he supposed whatever scandalous - _good god, I really hope not_ \- behaviour he had gotten up to was not witnessed by the old man.

Which left, of course, one other source of answers. He glanced upwards at Emma, who sat across from him, wiping her mouth with the handkerchief. He really didn’t want to have to ask her, but what choice did he have?

“The weather outside is lovely today, Emma. Would you care to join me for a walk around the gardens?” George asked.

“Of course, Mr Knightley,” Emma replied. George still thought she was studying him in a strange manner, but he resolved to find out whatever it was he had done and apologise for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Here is Chapter 2! It's a little bit of a filler, but I needed to show the entire night so that in the upcoming chapter you actually know what really happened :) George is already wondering what happened because he does not remember anything at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I had a bit of difficulty wrapping this up nicely, and was really running out of inspiration, so I hope you will forgive if it is shorter than you expected. As a disclaimer, you will notice some of Jane Austen's original dialogue from Emma and Mr Knightley's garden scene (Chap 49) because honestly, there were somethings that she said so well I couldn't exactly put into words.
> 
> I hope you like the quote - I think it really encompasses this chapter, and well, what I'm trying to convey.

> _"Seldom, very seldom, does the complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material." - Jane Austen, Emma._

* * *

George watched as Emma passed through the garden door ahead of him. His stomach twisted in knots. He had yet to muster the courage to ask her about the night before, and Emma had been no help at all in providing the answers he desired of her own free will. She too, seemed to skirt around the topic. Their shared quietness and feeling of constraint frustrated him. 

Unbeknownst to him, Emma was afflicted with similar feelings of dread. Despite having had more time for the arrangement of her mind so as to appear calm and collected, she struggled to erase the memory of the night before from her mind. Emma was quite certain he remembered something - he was visibly anxious at breakfast, and she felt with certainty that his health being only “considerable” was due to an overwhelming vexation and embarrassment of the self.

She was beginning to feel quite foolish and silly. How ridiculous and naive she had acted, entertaining a drunken fantasy as if it were reality and adding to the awkwardness. Doubt and shame clawed away at her sense of self-esteem and pride. In her current state, she felt she was hardly deserving of such affection, and to add insult to injury, from such a worthy gentleman. How would the ever-graceful and refined Jane Fairfax have acted? Surely not nearly as ridiculously as her. Bitterly, she recalled Mrs. Weston’s desiring for a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps his outburst of emotion was intended for someone else. The thought of it made Emma grit her teeth.

She turned around to face Mr. Knightley, observing his face curiously, trying to get a fuller view of his state of emotions. He was agitated, looking unlike himself, and evidently uncomfortable. They seemed within half a sentence of broaching the topic of last night. Gods, this silence can go on no longer, Emma thought. 

Decidedly, Emma planted her feet firmly into the ground and looked right at Mr. Knightley, the expression of her eyes quite overpowering him. 

George’s eyes widened slightly, anxiety providing the push he needed. The ghost of a memory flickered like a candle in the dark within his mind.

The voices turn vicious… The regularity of your meetings begin to decline, the intervals increasing and elongating. I walk to Hartfield every day. But for how long, Knightley?... An indigent shout of no! Silhouettes dancing against a window… a loud explosion in the background… split brandy… and you are unbelievable. 

His mind raced and his heartbeat quickened. Had she shouted at her? Lectured her yet again? Demanded her company? 

“Mr. Knightley, I see no use in delaying this conversation further. I must tell what you will not ask, in regards to last night’s events, though I may wish it unsaid the next mo -” 

He had best apologise now.

“Dearest Emma, I meant not one word of whatever drunken gibberish I uttered last night! I am wholly, entirely, completely embarrassed by my behaviour! My only wish is that you will forgive me for this slight and that we continue to be the dearest of friends.” ****

Emma’s lips were parted, frozen in place by shock. Mr. Knightley’s words seemed to echo in her head. Meant not one word… drunken gibberish… well, of course he didn’t, you prideful fool... Even with the expectation that he surely did not mean the overly affectionate things he had said to her the night before, Emma was hurt. Was the notion of being attached to her so shameful? Was it that embarrassing and depreciating to have asked for her hand? She felt herself ready to sink, into the deepest depths of the oceans where the freezing waters would wash over her burning embarrassment and disappointment. ****

Emma’s composure quite evaporated, her doe-like eyes turned glassy, welling up with tears and her face stricken with mortification. ****

“Oh, I should not have said a word! I stopped you ungraciously, my dear Emma, and have given you pain. Pain it seems, that I have inflicted since last night - I… I dare not ask to hear your voice, for I think I am not in a position to make that request of you,” George exclaimed fretfully, his nerves tense and overwrought. ****

His mind was a maelstrom of emotion, filled with the hollow fear that his words and actions appeared to have wounded Emma to a degree he never wished to have contrived. Gods, what have I done? What have I said to hurt her so? What did I bloody do last night? The desire to bash his head into stone had never been greater. ****

Emma’s voice faltered. She swallowed, silently praying that the emotions that threatened to burst would remain within her, at least for the next few minutes. She could not muster the strength to look him in the eye, and so consented to gaze ahead at the wine-red roses blooming in the garden behind him. ****

“You - you really mean nothing of what you said last night? Not in any way or sentiment?” Emma asked, stuttering slightly. ****

“No! Most certainly not - ” ****

“So you remember everything, then. I - I would be the first to admit that your embarrassment can be no more justified, but are you really so disgusted by my character and company that you are so terrified in my believing otherwise?” Emma spat, tears streaming down her face now. ****

He was aghast at the presumption. ****

“My dearest Emma! How could - how could you ever conceive me as disgusted by your character? Nay, not in a million years! You, my dearest and most beloved Emma, for dearest and beloved you will always be!” George exclaimed. He reached for her hand and pressed it against his chest. ****

Emma drew her eyes away from the rose bush and lifted her head to meet his gaze. Though she lacked clarity of mind, Emma felt some foreign semblance of hope swell within her chest. ****

“I - forgive me, Emma. I have gone about this entirely the wrong way, and seemed to be doomed to blindness. I noticed you were unsettled this morning, and with little recollection of last night’s events, immediately jumped to the worst conclusion that I had done something to upset you. I intended to ask you about it, I truly did, but you mustered the strength to broach the topic before me, and to my anxious mind it seemed only to confirm the worst,” said he.

Giving Emma’s hand a light squeeze, he soon resumed speaking. “I appear to have been deficient in showing you just how much you mean to me. The thought that my follies and blunders have led you to believe so drastically otherwise - and to cause you great pain - is the worst punishment the world could seek to condemn one to. You are my dearest friend.” 

Emma’s mind was very much engaged whilst he spoke, a million blurry thoughts and connections made but unregistered by the sheer intensity of his gaze that rendered her quite speechless. Despite her usual agility and sharpness of mind, she found she did not know how to respond. He did not remember. He did not remember. He did not remember. ****

George found himself quite unsure of how to interpret her continued silence. Surely, she must grasp his meaning. His thoughts now developed with an astounding velocity. Surely, she did not doubt the depth of his affection? He felt his fortitude uncoiling and withering with every second he gazed upon her distraught expression. He felt compelled to tell her, to spill the abounding affection, regard and love he had for her from his heart. Yet he had no inkling as to how she would react to such a declaration, not when he knew how decidedly she had turned down Elton’s proposal and repudiated his attention not so long ago. ****

Would her reaction be any different for him? Or was he simply a family friend and acquaintance to her? George had no intention of disrupting that harmonious coexistence between Donwell Abbey and Harfield, the one which he so relied on for the comfort and warmth it provided. What was lifelong bachelorhood to him so long as he had his dearest Emma for company, who would surely remain his so long as she continued to forswear marriage? Alas, if she did swear off marriage, he felt they may never succeed that threshold of friendship and transcend into something more. ****

And if he should make his feelings known, and she were to repudiate them as he had Mr. Elton’s - what would become of that harmonious co-existence? He knew that he would not be removed from Hartfield forever, for Mr Woodhouse would expect him just the same, yet he feared his relationship with Emma would be wholly altered. He may always be the brother of John Knightley, always an uncle to Isabella’s children, and always an aide to the worrisome Mr. Woodhouse - but he may no longer be Emma’s dear Mr. Knightley. The tenderness, openness and honesty which had blossomed between them in recent years would be changed; shifted by insurmountable awkwardness, discomfiture or perhaps embarrassment. ****

He looked once more upon Emma’s face, her golden curls glowing like an angel’s halo; her eyes wide and glassy, salty tears threatening to fall down her flushed cheeks. It distressed him to see Emma, the ever-composed, decided and happy Emma appear so befuddled, emotionally bedraggled and torn. ****

Emma’s hazy mind had latched on to his last words. You are my dearest friend. Friend. She knew he anxiously waited for her response, and so she summoned the strength to speak, hoping her voice would not break and reveal her sullen disappointment. ****

“A-all is forgiven, Mr. Knightley. You really have nothing to apologise for. I assure you, you did nothing to slight, wound or insult me last night. It was merely a misu-misunderstanding,” Emma managed to say, “and you may consider ourselves v-very well returned to the st-ate of being -” ****

“of being the dearest of -” she soon resumed, with a forced accent of composure. Pull yourself together, Woodhouse! she chided herself. **  
**

George seized this opportunity to interject. To hell with the risks! ****

“I cannot make speeches, Emma,” he began, speaking with sincerity and tenderness. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more - but you know what I am. I have been entrenched in doubt, anxiety and the forbearing question of propriety, and god knows I have been so very indifferent a lover. I did not contrive to walk with you for this purpose, yet it seems fate has decreed I wait no longer. It was my last intention to hurt you, and I - well, I know no other way of convincing you so.” ****

Emma’s mouth hung open yet again in shock. Quite honestly speaking, she was floored. The change in atmosphere and emotion had been so sudden, so unexpected - yet it could not have been more welcome. Vocal chords failing her, Emma flung her arms around Mr. Knightley’s neck and drew him into a tight hug. ****

George was surprised by her reaction, but returned the gesture with a tight squeeze. In her embrace he felt all his anxiety melt away and dissipate, a whisper to the wondrous ringing of joy in his soul. ****

Strangely, he found he couldn’t help but laugh. ****

Emma sniffed. “What do you find so amusing?” she murmured into his chest. ****

“This does mean you return my affections, right?” George asked, a smile creeping onto his face. ****

Emma stepped back, releasing herself from his grip. She smacked him playfully on the arm, though seemed to find herself oddly inclined to giggle as well. ****

“Don’t be ridiculous! What else could it mean?” Emma huffed, crossing her arms slightly. She bit her lip, pondering something seriously, then asked quietly: “You are completely and entirely sober, right?” ****

George raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Very much so, as far as I am concerned,” he affirmed, elated spirits now turning curious. “Why?” ****

Emma smiled to herself, quite satisfied, and turned away from him to trim some of her flowers. As her fingers brushed over the velvet petals of the red roses she eyed earlier, she replied half-heartedly to his question. “No reason at all.” ****

“Mmm… is that so?”

“Yes, it is decidedly so.” ****

“Ah. I see.”

“I am pleased to hear your visual sensory organs are functioning.” ****

“I admit my earlier guesses as to what transpired yesternight have insofar been wholly wrong… but I feel that this time I do think -” ****

“Nothing out of the ordinary happened, Mr. Knightley. Nothing at all, truly. We read, we talked, we enjoyed the lightshow,” Emma interrupted, her voice filled with smugness. She dropped the several roses she had cut into a basket resting nearby, picked it up and swivelled round to face him. “Except of course, your behaviour was a little more - how should I say - forward than usual.” ****

“And I assume you found this, as you put it, forward side to my character appealing? I must have been extremely charming since you were so upset at my rescinding of all that charisma and allure,” George quipped. He was beginning to feel quite accomplished because of how well he could hold his liquor - but also childishly excited that they might be more colorful in their expressions to each other. ****

Emma pouted slightly at the mention of her earlier distress and rolled her eyes. “Extremely is a very strong word, Mr. Knightley, and you know it is not good to make a habit of exaggeration. You are always appealing, Mr. Knightley, but yes, it was nice to see you so relaxed and light-hearted.” ****

George couldn’t help but grin goofily at what she had just said. He was feeling very, very pleased with himself indeed. ****

“What?” Emma balked. “Why are you just grinning at me?” ****

He didn’t think it possible, but his grin actually widened. “I quite enjoyed hearing what you just said.” ****

Emma opened her mouth to retort, but upon realising she had just said ‘You are always appealing, Mr. Knightley’ her face flushed red. ****

“Wipe that smirk off your face this instant, Mr. Knightley.” Emma demanded. ****

“I have a better idea.” ****

Time stopped as George pressed his lips against Emma's. The flutter in her chest intensified. It was sudden and swift, but gentle; Emma felt all rationale and worry leave her soul. She could only think of the sweetness of his kiss and the softness of his lips, and the thrill that this moment was wholly hers sent shivers down her spine. Emma’s eyes fluttered open momentarily, stealing a glance at her dear Mr. Knightley, just to make sure he was not a dream. ****

All the liquor in the world could not have prepared George Knightley for this moment - he, who was always so confident and composed - felt tentative. Her ambrosial kiss, her aromatic perfume and the warmth of her breath was as inviting as it was destabilizing. George Knightley had always been a man of sure footing, yet somehow he felt his faith in his knees supporting him waver. Her touch was somehow life-giving summer rain, the first blossoms of spring and the persistent warmth of a fireplace during a cold winter’s eve all at once. ****

Emma sighed against his lips, daring to open her eyes and bask in the tenderness of his longing gaze. He tilted her chin upwards, and Emma felt her lips curve upwards into a smile. He was looking at her intently, eyes twinkling mischievously in the sunlight. ****

George gave her a knowing grin. “How do you feel about doughnuts?” ****

* * *

Emma rested her head against Mr. Knightley’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. The last month had been blissful, though she was growing fatigued of the effort required to keep their engagement secret. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, at the same time admiring the spread in front of her. A small box of sugar doughnuts, a bowlful of Donwell’s freshest and sweetest strawberries, and some assorted pastries were laid out neatly on the checkered picnic cloth. ****

“Emma?” George asked, nudging her slightly. ****

“Mmm?” Emma replied dreamily. ****

“I have something important to ask you.” ****

Emma lifted her head off his shoulder and turned to face him. She surveyed his face and quiet seriousness, anticipation making her slightly nervous. He held his hands behind his back and looked at her intently. ****

“Ask away, Mr. Knightley.” Emma said, nodding slightly. ****

George’s tranquil expression grew into a wide grin. ****

“My dear Emma,” he said, pausing slightly, “would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” ****

Emma’s jaw dropped as she watched him lift a sugar-coated doughnut up at her. She stared at him in disbelief. ****

“But...but you don't remember...” ****

George’s grin widened. “What makes you say that?” ****

Emma laughed, taking the doughnut he held out and biting into it. She swallowed and smiled at him. “I accept,” she said, struggling to contain her laughter. He remembered! ****

His smile softened, and he withdrew a small velvet pouch from one of his pockets. “I’m glad,” George remarked, “it would’ve been a shame to have never seen you wear this ring,” ****

Emma’s eyes widened as he opened the ring-box. An elegant, silver ring with a gorgeous shining diamond glittered up at her. Her eyes began to well up with tears.

“Oh, George - it’s beautiful,” Emma whispered. She held out her hand, and he gently slid the ring onto her finger.

“I love it!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck, adding later, “and I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I am sorry the conclusion is short, but I really wanted to wrap up and end this because I'm about to get busy! 
> 
> Meaning of wine-red roses: often used to convey deep love and passion, as with most red roses, but the wine-red roses (deep, dark burgundy colour) in a more modern context also mean unconscious beauty; the link to the liquor can also be interpreted as harbouring secret or hidden emotions and feelings. :)


End file.
